


Toxicity

by AnotherNamelessGhoul



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hallucinations, Near Death, Poisoning, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:41:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22383496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherNamelessGhoul/pseuds/AnotherNamelessGhoul
Summary: What happens when you get too cocky and mix too many potions at once.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 129





	1. Chapter 1

Geralt comes to, more or less, being cradled in a set of arms like he's a child, held tight by someone who is moving far faster than they should be able to while holding up his weight. He's usually the person carrying someone, slung over his back or over his horse or under the arms and dragged to safety. When was the last time he was picked up? Childhood? He tries to lift his head and it just falls hopelessly back against the chest of whoever has him. 

A voice shushes him but it doesn't quite penetrate whatever fog he's stuck in. His head feels wrapped up in cotton wool, muffled and dizzy and wrong. This is not good, he thinks. Nothing hurts but someone is carrying him and so something must be wrong, and so the lack of pain is extra not good. He is cold, though, and he can feel himself trembling violently with no way to still it. His heart is beating, beating, so fast it almost hurts, and that's definitely a bad sign, considering it's normal, slow cadence. He tries to remember what he was doing. Fighting something, no doubt. His extremities are starting to go numb. He tries to reach for his belt, to feel for the potions hanging there, but his arms don't quite cooperate and he comes up empty anyways and fuck, that's also not good, had he taken the lot of them? His head is too foggy to think and whoever is carrying him is gathering his arms and pulling them in close to his body and shushing and shushing and it's impossible to keep his eyes open any more so he lets them drift shut again and he's gone.

He wakes up again and oh, fuck, there's the pain. It fills his stomach first and bubbles out over his chest and settles as a deep, heavy ache in his limbs and head. He feels made of lead, heavy and immobile and fucking nauseous. Someone is pushing him over onto his side and holding up a basin and he vomits without any awareness that he was going to do so, like his body has stripped all control from his mind. He trembles with the heaves, arches off the bed with the force of it and he can't stop and there's a warm hand on his forehead, on his back, sweeping his sweat-soaked hair out of the way and someone talking to him as if he is a child, "good, that's good, you'll be alright. You have to get it out." And he's choking for air, gasping and struggling and the voice, so, so familiar, doesn't stop reassuring him even when it feels like the sickness goes on forever and his whole body is wrenched inside out and there's not possibly anything left to bring up but the pain doesn't even begin to lessen.

Then someone is pressing something to his lips, water, and he drinks and his throat is on fire and he whimpers and feels pathetic for it, and then something thick and sweet follows it and he coughs and tries to turn his head but the hands, much stronger, force him still and force it down his throat. He swallows a couple of times convulsively and someone is back to rubbing his back, gentle and firm. It stays down, miraculously, and he starts to feel just a little better almost immediately. He rolls over onto his back, aided again by the hands, and now with the medicine in his system he's finally able to recognize the face.

"Nenneke." His voice is terrible and weak and it hurts coming out.

"Don't 'Nenneke' me." She grumbles, "you nearly died in my arms and you aren't in the clear yet." But she pats his middle under the covers affectionately. "Sleep, Geralt. We'll talk when you're better. You're in for a rough time."

He wants to ask what happened, what he's done to himself this time, who carried him, how long he's been out for, where Dandelion was, but the command works as just that: a command, and he drifts out again with his old mentor seated beside him, holding one of his cold hands between her own.


	2. Chapter 2

"Answer me this, Geralt." It was the first thing he heard when he came back to with not the slightest idea what day it was or how long he'd been gone for. There was a rag draped over his forehead, freshly cooled, and fresh, clean linens over him and it didn't at all match the harshness in Nenneke's tone. "Answer me this. How long have you been a witcher for?"

It seemed an odd question. He drew a deep breath in and it burned like fire tearing through his lungs. He pressed a hand over his sternum and let the breath woosh out in a hard rasp and her expression softened, if only microscopically. He started to say something through the grating in his airways and she waved a hand to shush him.

"We both know the answer. The answer is, long enough to know about toxicity and not to take all of the potions you're carrying in one fell swoop until your heart stops." She sighed deeply, tucking her hair back. "How many times, Geralt. How many times have I told you that you have to be more careful?"

"More than I've listened, certainly." He gave her a wan smile.

"That's one constant of the universe." She took the rag from his forehead, re-set it and used it to brush over his chapped, cracked lips, his cheeks, his neck. He sighed and let himself lean in to the touch.

As soon as the anger abated, she just looked sad, sad and deeply weary. "So tell me. Did you mean to end yourself or were you just acting in a moment of incredible foolishness?"

He shook his head and regretted it as his vision swum out in a wave of dizziness. He grasped Nenneke's hand to steady himself. "I wasn't thinking clearly, I suppose. I haven't been sleeping well and I miscalculated.

"Miscalculated is a word for it. Your heart stopped completely three times and I sat with you for a full day while your body purged the poison from your system and then two more shoving spoons of white honey down your throat. That you're talking to me now is a testament to your sheer stubborn-ness.

Geralt closed his eyes. "I assume you wouldn't be scolding me now if you thought there was still a chance of my dying."

"You're out of the woods, yes, more or less." She poured a glass of water and handed it to him and his hands shook so much that she took it back and pressed it against his lips, pulling back far sooner than he would have liked. "The reaper missed you this time but I think it will be a whole before you're up and about in any meaningful way."

"How did I get here?" He asked, letting his head fall back, not having the energy to keep it up any longer. "I think I remember being carried."

"Your bard carried you until he found someone with a horse and cart willing to take the both of you the rest of the way."

"Dandelion?" His eyes shot back open. "No. He's near half my size."

"Amazing what pure adrenaline can do to a person. He was shaking like a leaf and near off his feet himself when he got you here. We fed him and sat him down until he'd calmed."

"Where is he now?"

"Sleeping. I finally pried him from your bedside when he nearly fell from his chair with exhaustion. Would you like to see him?"

"Yes, of course. Please." He said, and Nenneke left the room.

**Author's Note:**

> The show did a disservice by not including Nenneke. I love her dearly. This was going to be a one shot but now there will presumably be at least a chapter two. As always my tumblr is tumblr.com/dandelions-and-white-wolves


End file.
